The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 454: Deities interest in Jolthar – 2

“Normally, they don’t have to think twice about it,” Haryntha corrected quietly.

“You’ve made them think twice.”

Jolthar sighed and leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting upward toward the darkening sky above the balcony.

“Deities,” he said at last, his voice calm but edged with contempt, “wear grand titles, demand worship, and drown themselves in ceremonies, yet beneath all that divinity, they behave no differently from emperors drunk on power. They thrive on fear, on submission, on convincing mortals that obedience is virtue.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Haryntha inhaled slowly, as though steadying herself before stepping onto dangerous ground.

“You truly despise them.”

Jolthar let out a faint laugh without humor.

“Should I admire them instead?”

“Yes,” she answered immediately, surprising even herself with the sharpness of her tone.

“Or at the very least understand what they are before condemning them.”

Jolthar turned his head toward her.

“And what are they?”

“Necessary.”

That single word lingered in the air longer than either expected.

Haryntha straightened slightly, her eyes unwavering now.

“You speak as though the deities were parasites feeding upon humanity. But you ignore what the world would look like without them. The divine domains stabilize reality itself. Harvest deities maintain fertility across entire continents. Sea deities calm storms that would annihilate coastal kingdoms. The deities of death keep souls from rotting into corruption. There is order because they exist.”

“And there was suffering long before I insulted a few immortals,” Jolthar replied flatly.

“You think suffering disproves divinity?”

“No,” he said. “I think it disproves their righteousness.”

Haryntha frowned faintly.

“That is an arrogant judgment from a mortal.”

“And there it is,” Jolthar murmured. “That tone with that certainty. The moment someone gains enough power, criticism becomes arrogance.”

“You are oversimplifying matters.”

“Am I?”

He sat forward now, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Tell me honestly, Haryntha. If a king demanded worship, punished disbelief, manipulated nations through fear, and crushed anyone who questioned him… would you call him wise?”

“No.”

“But if a deity does it?”

Her silence answered him before her words did.

“It is different.”

Jolthar smiled faintly.

“Why?”

“Because they are not human.”

“That only explains their power,” he replied. “Not their morality.”

Haryntha’s expression tightened slightly.

“You reduce divinity to politics.”

“Because that is what it becomes once deities involve themselves in mortal civilization.”

The wind stirred softly around them, carrying the foul scent of the nynthralls. Just like their surroundings, their conversation was also laden with tension and uncertainty, as they grappled with the implications of divine intervention in their world.

Haryntha folded her arms.

“You speak boldly for someone who has survived by the narrowest margins imaginable.”

“And yet I survived.”

“That does not make you correct.”

“No,” Jolthar admitted. “But it does make me question why beings so vastly superior feel threatened by one man speaking openly.”

Haryntha’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You wounded a deity.”

“I defended myself.”

“You humiliated one publicly.”

“I exposed weakness publicly,” he corrected.

“That distinction matters only to you.”

“No,” Jolthar said quietly. “It matters to them, too. That’s why they’re angry.”

That gave her pause.

Jolthar noticed.

“They’re not furious because I hurt one of them,” he continued. “They’re furious because mortals saw it happen. deities survive on perception as much as power.”

“That is not entirely false,” Haryntha admitted carefully.

“Of course it isn’t.”

“But you still fail to understand something fundamental.”

“And what is that?”

Her voice softened then, losing some of its defensiveness.

“Most deities do not see themselves as tyrants. Many genuinely believe they are protecting humanity, guiding it.”

Jolthar’s expression remained unmoved.

“And every ruler in history has claimed the same thing.”

“You compare divine stewardship to mortal corruption too easily.”

“Because immortality doesn’t magically create virtue.”

Haryntha stared at him for several long seconds.

“You really do see them as flawed beings.”

“They are flawed beings,” Jolthar said simply.

“Just powerful enough that no one dares say it aloud.”

“That kind of thinking is dangerous.”

“That kind of silence is worse.”

The response came instantly, almost instinctively.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Haryntha exhaled slowly, rubbing at her temple.

“You know what unsettles me most?” she asked quietly.

“That I’m right?”

“That you genuinely believe this.” Her gaze hardened again.

“Most people who criticize the deities do so from anger, grief, or wounded pride. But you…”

She hesitated briefly. “You’ve thought about this.”

“A great deal.”

“And you aren’t afraid.”

Jolthar looked away toward the horizon.

“No,” he said after a while. “I am afraid.”

That seemed to catch her off guard.

“But fear loses its meaning eventually,” he continued quietly. “Once you realize the things above, you are not sacred… they are merely powerful.”

Haryntha’s breathing slowed.

“That perspective could start wars.”

“It already has.”

“You could destabilize faith across the empire.”

“Then perhaps faith built upon fear deserves to collapse.”

The air between them became still.

As though the conversation had drifted beyond two individuals and touched something far older, the eternal struggle between authority and freedom, worship and doubt.

Haryntha finally spoke again, but this time her voice carried no argument.

“Do you know why the deities are being cautious with you?”

Jolthar glanced toward her.

“Because I’m troublesome?”

“No.” She shook her head faintly.

“Because you speak like the kind of man who changes eras.”

The fire crackled between them. Somewhere in the distant, corrupted landscape, something screamed and was silenced.

Jolthar stood, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Haryntha asked immediately, her composure cracking in an almost endearing way, given her usual composed authority.

“I’m covered in nythrall blood and three kinds of unidentifiable dark liquid,” Jolthar replied with complete practicality, pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it beside his pack.

“Some of it is starting to itch, which, given what these creatures are made of, is probably not something I should ignore.”

He reached for a cloth from his pack and began wiping down his torso slowly, the firelight illuminating the various scars that mapped years of impossible situations across his skin — each one a story, each one survived.